Your Kisses They Burn
by In Walked Luck
Summary: You've always been a sucker for punishment, so you lean closer, because if you're going to Hell again you might as well make it worth it.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing and no one. The title is taken from Bruce Springsteen's song "Fire".

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He tastes of warmth. You know it makes no sense, because, shit, _warmth_? But it is what it is, and what it is, is warmth - on his skin, in his mouth, on his breath. _Everywhere_.

Cassie always tasted like coffee, Anna tasted like some berry lip-crap she had been wearing, and Jo … she always had a mouth-watering scent about her that made you sure she would taste like the whiskey she so often poured. When you finally got around to kissing her, you hated yourself for not doing it sooner, because by then it was all pennies, copper, _blood_.

But Cas … he tastes like warmth and light and the blazing fucking sun. When you drag your tongue up his throat, suck at the place where his neck meets his shoulder, and nuzzle - because, despite what you tell yourself, you _do_ nuzzle - at that soft spot right behind his ear, it's all warmth, all heat, all delicious red-hot radiance that you want to bury yourself in.

The first time you kiss him it takes your breath away. You're cold - so damn cold from the sharp, icy rain beating down on you, in the middle of fucking nowhere, while you try and fix that noise coming from your baby - when Cas's body presses close, the side of his coat comes up to cover your head, and his breath eases the goose pimples on your neck.

And you want it - that heat he's giving you - _inside_ you. You want to swallow it down like a shot of Johnny Walker, and have it warm you from the inside out, have it burn you from your lips right down to your toes. So you stare at him, feeling warmer by the second, and Cas keeps staring at you in that way he does - as if you're important, worthy, _special_. You don't believe it for a second, and you don't think anyone else does either, but you _know_ that Cas believes it, and that's all that matters.

You know you should say something snappy about personal space, you even open your mouth to start speaking, but it doesn't happen. Instead, you blink drowsily, lick your rain-wet lips, and lean in, press your mouth against Cas's, and _feel_.

It burns. It burns and it hurts and it's oh-so good that you desperately want more. You've been desperate for a lot of things in life, but never like this. The heat of Castiel, as he effortlessly opens his mouth to you, as though it's the most natural thing in the world, is that flawless mix of pain and pleasure and you don't know what to do, you don't know what to think, you don't know how to breathe.

It's fucking awesome.

It crosses your mind to push him away, cool down your mouth, your body, your entire being … but you don't push him away. Of course you fucking don't, and despite how good and _warm_ this feels, you know this can't end well.

Angel of the Lord, and all that.

But you've always been a sucker for punishment, so you lean closer - because if you're going to Hell again you might as well make it worth it - slip your tongue into his mouth, and ignore the pounding of your heart. Because it aches. Just aches. And you know it's going to take you a long time to figure out whether or not that's a good thing.

Cas's tongue slides against your own, licking and tasting and exploring every crevice of your mouth, and it's so damn hot. Your body is burning - every flick of Cas's tongue scorches your insides, every breath he pants against you sends gusts of heat across your skin, and the fingers that suddenly glide beneath your shirt are like tendrils of fire that lick at your stomach.

You pull back, unsure if it's the hot, hot heat making you do so, or the shock that Cas made the first move. He touched you first, while you were too damn busy concentrating on the taste of his mouth, what it felt like to kiss him, to even think about the rest of him.

"I must go," he says, head tilting softly in your direction, his expression never once changing. "Goodbye, Dean."

You stand alone in the rain, feeling dumb and stupid, for too damn long. With a muttered curse, you slam the hood of your car closed, and kick angrily at the sodden dirt beneath your feet.

You're twenty miles down the road before your brain begins to function properly again, before you hear the clanking of the engine again, before you start to shiver.

The next time it happens is just as unexpected as the time before. You think that maybe, just maybe, Cas knows exactly what he's doing, knows the way he's basically seducing you with just the touch of his fingers to your hand.

It's almost flirting; the soft and gentle caress of his long fingers on your wrist, the carefulness as his other hand hovers over the tear in your palm - caused by a rusty nail, of all things - the sultry breaths of air that soothe the bloody sting. It's flirting, you're sure of it. Castiel, who hasn't once mentioned the kiss or anything to hint that the kiss ever happened in the weeks since, is flirting with you.

It's pretty awesome. You kind of like it a lot.

So you stare at him, your hand fully healed, waiting for him to meet your gaze because you want to see _that_ look on his face. You know it will be there as surely as you know the Impala will need an oil change in exactly two-hundred-and-eleven miles. But when he does look at you, when he gives you that look … Christ. The blue of his eyes is overwhelming and your breath begins to come out in shallow pants.

And then he says your name in that way he does, because it's not enough that he looks at you the way he does - like you're important, worthy, _special_ - he has to say your name like it means something, too. Like an embrace, like it hurts a little bit, like every inhale of air he takes only means something if the exhale rides out with your name.

"_Dean_."

You sigh. You _want_ to groan in some kind of perfect pain at the sound of your name from his lips, the roughness of his voice, but you just sigh a slow exhale of breath, and kiss him again.

And he reciprocates, slower and softer than last time, but just as easily. His mouth touches your own, and it's the most barely-there kiss you've ever had - lips scarcely touching, hot breath mingling, and noses brushing smoothly. You want to push for more - to push Cas back against the bed you're both sitting on and rut against him - but you also just want to take this moment for what it is, and _breath him in_.

You mouth his jaw, enjoying the odd feel of stubble beneath your lips, before suckling at the soft piece of skin right below his ear, and … holy fucking shit. The warmth floods you, and you actually salivate at the taste of it. Of him. You suck harder, press a little harder, shudder at the gasp Cas makes, and then he pulls away.

Before you can pull him back, he takes off and the motel door opens. Sam walks in, holding a couple of pizzas, and you readjust yourself to hide the hardness in your jeans.

The apocalypse is coming. Lucifer still wants Sam, Michael still wants you, and you still have Horseman to kill, but that doesn't stop the stray demons, vengeful spirits, or cursed objects. It's four demons, two spirits, a locked room full of cursed objects, and two months before you're alone with Cas again. But every time you see him, every time you're there and he's there and Sam's there, you get this uncomfortable feeling that settles in the pit of your stomach.

Lust? Guilt? Shame? You really have no idea. All you do know is that you want Sam to leave, want him to just fuck right off so you can be alone with Cas and sort your shit out.

So when Sam heads to the library to research whatever the fuck it is you're currently hunting - with Cas staring at you the way he is, you just can't remember - you take advantage of however long you have.

Sam's out the door, and you don't think about the consequences of what could happen if he comes right back in, you push Cas up against the wall and kiss him. You kiss and he licks, you grab and he grasps, you push and he pulls. You shove at his clothes, getting warm, heated skin but never enough, until your hand is in his pants, wrapped around his straining cock, and he's gasping and trembling against you. And oh dear God, it is awesome.

But you don't know what to think, because once is an accident, twice is a mistake, but three times? Three kisses? That's becoming habit. Good habit, bad habit, you don't really care.

You've only ever done this to yourself, but you've done it plenty and you know how to make it feel good, know how to squeeze ever so slightly at the head to make Cas grunt and thrust into your fist, know how to spread the pre-come around so everything's slick and wet and Cas's breaths sound like they're being ripped out of him.

You lick at his neck and jaw and mouth, crush your lips to his, wanting nothing more than to make him feel good. And he does feel good. He's hot against your palm, hot and burning, silky and hard, and it makes breathing and thinking difficult. But then he's writhing against you, coming in your hand and, Jesus fucking Christ, you've never felt more proud of your sexual competence. Giving an Angle of the Lord his first orgasm - now that's something.

When you pull back and look at him, he looks dazed, ruined, _wrecked_. And after he slips his hand into your boxers and makes you moan and shake and come with one quick stroke of his fervent hand to your aching dick, you give an embarrassed chuckle and put it entirely down to Angel Mojo.

The next time you feel him that hard and eager, he's throwing you up against an alley wall, beating the shit out of you. You can't even blame him; everything he's yelling at you is so true and honest and awful … and you feel like a real dick for the way you've been acting, the way you've been treating him. As if all the stupid sexual innuendos of that day weren't enough, you go and do this. Offer yourself up to the fuckers above.

Cas … he's given you everything, and you know it. You don't need him to tell you, but you're glad he does. It makes the guilt flare up, makes you feel like shit for what you're doing, and you need that - need to feel the guilt of a thousand men, and you need Castiel to make you feel it, because if Cas makes you feel it then you might be okay about not going through with this. Sam and Bobby, they'll give you a barrelling then let you away with this kind of shit, but not Cas. And if you have to tell yourself you're not giving in to he douche bags above because Cas makes you feel guilty about it, then so be it.

Cas does a really awesome job at making you feel guilty. Everything about him is furious, especially the hard-on you can feel against your hip, and when you're locked back in the panic room later that night, you genuinely wonder if maybe Cas is a little bit kinky.

You find out when he pins you against the wall, fingers biting into your wrists and anger in other languages spilling from his lips. And he ruts against you, harsh and fast and broken until you're both coming in your pants like teenagers. When you kiss him afterwards, his wet mouth burns you and your heart hurts and it's good.

Sam makes you make a promise, and even though your body heats up and your mind flits to Castiel, you promise.

He's human the next time you kiss him. You don't know it at the time, but it's also the last time you kiss him, and somehow his being human for it is fitting. Depressing, when you think about it later, but fitting.

He still tastes like warmth and light and the blazing fucking sun when you slide your mouth against his, and he still looks at you as if you're important, worthy, _special_. And that's what matters. Sam's said yes to Lucifer, Adam's said yes to Michael, and you have to stop whatever's about to happen between them, because that's what you _do_.

But first you have to kiss Castiel, because you're going up against _Michael _and _Lucifer_, both in the meat suits of your brothers - one you will do _anything_ for, and the other you didn't know you had until a year ago - and you don't have a clue what could happen. So you have to kiss Cas, you just have to.

And then Sam and Adam, Lucifer and Michael, they're all gone. Cas and Bobby are dead and it's just you. You're completely fucking alone and all you can think about is the promise you made Sam, and how you might just have to keep it because you literally have nothing else going for you.

But then Cas is back and he's healing you and healing Bobby, and things don't seem quite so bleak. Until you're in the car, until you're asking him what he's going to do now, until he mentions Heaven.

Lisa first kisses you after you've been with her for five weeks. It's not a big kiss, just something soft and dry and quick. You haven't been sleeping well and she knows it, so before she heads up to bed one night, she leans down and kisses you.

She's sweet, she really is, but the thing about Lisa is that she tastes like toothpaste - minty, fresh, _cold_.

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**A/N:** Feedback is lovely :)


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